


Those unheard are sweeter

by BroadwayBaggins



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Backstory, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Companion Piece, F/M, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Goodbyes, Multiple Sclerosis, Romance, Ten Years Later, but what happened to Anne during that time?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23914876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayBaggins/pseuds/BroadwayBaggins
Summary: After all, she always hated goodbyes.-------------A look at Anne Hastings' life after leaving Mansion House. A deleted scene/backstory for A Mansion House Murder.
Relationships: Anne Hastings & Mary Phinney, Anne Hastings/Original Male Character, Byron Hale/Anne Hastings, Jedediah "Jed" Foster/Mary Phinney
Comments: 9
Kudos: 4





	Those unheard are sweeter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Mansion House Murder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384296) by [BroadwayBaggins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayBaggins/pseuds/BroadwayBaggins), [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/pseuds/Fericita), [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray), [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch), [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow), [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells). 



_ Late April 1865 _

Anne Hastings hated goodbyes.

She always had, and for that reason she tried her best to avoid them whenever possible. When she’d left England for the Crimea, she had told her sister in a three-line note where she was going. Florence Nightingale had sent her packing so quickly there had been no time for prolonged goodbyes, which suited Anne just fine. Her last conversation with Byron Hale, before McBurney banished him out West, had been short, to the point, without theatrics on either end despite Byron’s best efforts. It was how Anne preferred it.

When Chaplain Hopkins had made his exit, abandoning them in favor of becoming a field chaplain with some New York division, Anne made one exception to her rule. She’d had few words to say to the departing chaplain, but they had forged a friendship of sorts--out of necessity at first and then by choice--and she knew that he deserved more than what she had given to so many in her life. 

_ “So it is true,” she had said to him the morning that his train was to depart, standing in the room that had once been his. It was vacant now, his scribblings cleared off of the desk, the bed linens stripped and ready to be washed for the next occupant. Anne had stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, and taken in the sight of him in his new uniform. There was a bit of dust on his shoulder, no doubt from packing, and she shook her head. “Well, you can’t leave looking like that. Come here, let me fix it.” _

_ He complied without a fuss, as she had known he would. Henry allowed Anne to turn him this way and that like a doll, brushing off his jacket, fixing an errant button. He had a lot to learn about Army rules and regulations, now that he was going off to the front, but if anyone was up to the task, Anne supposed it would be Henry Hopkins. “I didn’t mean to sneak off,” he said softly as she worked. “I just...thought it would be easier this way.” _

_ “You might think that, but it isn’t,” Anne said, her tone brusque. “It never is.” She gave his jacket one final brush and stepped back, looking him up and down. “There we go. Anyone would be hard-pressed to find anything amiss with that uniform now.” _

_ “Thank you,” Henry said softly. When he caught her eye, he smiled and did a mock salute. Anne regarded him for a moment, her eyes prickling with unshed tears that she hoped he did not see. _

_ He did, of course--the man was too perceptive for his own damn good. “Miss Hastings,” he murmured, concern crossing his face.  _

_ She couldn’t let him see her cry--she wouldn’t. So instead, she did something even more unexpected--she stepped forward and threw her arms around him. _

_ He stiffened in her grasp for just a moment, before his arms came around her. His embrace was both tender and fierce, like a protective brother, and Anne wondered if that’s what he saw her as--as a sister of sorts, now. That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. _

_ “You be careful, now,” she said thickly. “I mean it, Henry Hopkins. No going off to be a hero, or any of that rubbish. You be careful, you shepherd those boys as best you can, but you keep yourself safe. Or I swear to God I’ll come down to bloody Georgia or whatever godforsaken place they send you and…” _

_ “I’ll be careful. I promise.” _

_ “Good.” Anne stepped back as abruptly as she had begun, discreetly wiping her eyes. “Because I also expect you to keep in touch, and I will be checking in to make sure you’ve listened to me.” _

_ “Of course.”  _

_ “Will you be saying goodbye to Miss Green?” she asked before she could stop herself. _

_ Immediately, Henry’s face changed. His lips pressed into a thin line, as if bidding some inner voice to be still. Anne felt a flicker of doubt--she should have left well enough alone--but ultimately decided she did not regret asking the question. If she didn’t ask it, who would?  _

_ Henry bit his lip. “I...I must get going.” _

_ " _ _ Henry.” Her tone was enough to stop him in his tracks. “You have to at least tell her goodbye. Whatever has happened between you two, Emma deserves at least that much.” _

_ “She won’t...I won’t burden her with this.” _

_ "You’ll regret it if you don’t.” She thought for a moment of William, dead on the Peninsula without a word of farewell, of Declan, in the hallway embracing his mother, of Byron standing in the street and searching the windows for a sign of her, of Jed reciting poetry to Mary’s feverish, pale face. “Believe me.” She might prefer quick exits, but she could regret them, too. _

_ He had nodded and reached for the battered suitcase at his feet, his mind no doubt already miles away from Alexandria. “I...I will. Excuse me, Miss Hastings. I’m sorry. I must go, I’ll miss my train…” He stopped in the doorway, looking back at her. “Take care of yourself, Anne.” _

_ “You too.” _

_ And then he was gone, leaving Anne alone in the room. _

Anne shook herself, as if that were enough to keep the memories away. He had kept his promise, writing when he could, although his letters were addressed to the whole hospital as often as they were to her. Whether he had taken her advice, she had no idea. She wondered what he was doing now, now that the war was over. Would he find a congregation somewhere? Teach? Come back here to win Emma’s heart? He could do what he wanted now, the war was--

_ The war was over. _ She had to keep reminding herself of this fact, for it was still difficult for her to believe--that after four endless years of fighting, of more death and misery than she ever could have imagined, that it was over just like that. Ever since the surrender at Appomattox, the hospital had begun to empty out, first a trickle, then a deluge. Only about two dozen men remained, mostly ones who were still too sick or injured to travel. They were down to a handful of orderlies, and even fewer nurses. There was talk, Anne heard, of converting the building back into a hotel once the last patient had returned home. As if things could be picked up so easily where they had been left off...

The war was over, and Anne hardly knew what to do with herself.

Tears stung her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily. She hated herself for how she was acting--how could she actually be  _ sorry _ that the fighting was done? Just because the war was over didn’t mean she had to hang up her hat entirely. There would always be a need for nurses--the war had proven that, hadn’t it? Anne hoped so, but the shadow of doubt remained in her mind. Surely someone would have need of her. She could go up North, where Jenny was, find a place in a hospital up there…

But it wouldn’t be the same. Her purpose, her reason for getting up in the morning, was leaving her. She might go somewhere else, find work, find meaning, maybe even find happiness again. But it wouldn’t be the same. She would never be Anne Hastings, Head Nurse, ever again. And that knowledge made Anne feel hollow and empty inside, and oh, how she hated it!

“Anne?”

Anne turned away from the window and wiped her eyes on her sleeve at the sound of Mary’s voice. “Is everything all right?”

Anne nodded, although she was sure that wasn’t enough to convince Mary. “I just…” her voice threatened to break, “I can’t believe it’s over.”

“I know,” Mary said, crossing the room to stand by Anne’s side. She offered her hand, and after a slight hesitation, Anne took it and squeezed it gently. “I keep thinking it’s all a dream,” Mary admitted. “That I’m going to wake up to Jed pounding on the door of my room, shouting that we’ve got incoming wounded, that it’s going to start all over again. It still doesn’t feel real.”

“I expect it won’t until the last soldier goes home,” Anne mused.

“Have you given any thought to what you’ll do when that happens?”

Anne sniffed once and let go of Mary’s hand, giving what she hoped was a flippant shrug. “A little. I had thought to go north, join my sister in New York. Perhaps see if I can find a job nursing there. Jenny likes the hospital where she works, says it’s gotten much better. Perhaps they’ll need another set of hands.”  _ If they are hiring, if they think I’m good enough, if they have any use for me now that the war is done. _

Mary nodded. “Jed and I want you to know that you’re welcome to stay with us any time you find yourself in Boston,” she said softly, and Anne laughed.

“I’d believe that of you far sooner than I’d believe it of your husband,” she teased, and Mary chuckled as well. Anne did not butt heads with Jedediah nearly as often anymore, and they had been able to find common ground on more than one occasion. Still, she couldn’t resist the little jab.

“Well, perhaps he’d need a bit of persuading, but I’m certain I could talk him into it. I do mean it, Anne. You are welcome any time.”

Anne smiled, although it was strained. “You have a life to start together--properly, now that the war is over. I couldn’t intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding--”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Foster,” Anne said abruptly, taking a step back. “I...I have patients that need tending. I’ll see you at dinner.” Gone were the days of “meals” eaten at breakneck speeds at odd hours. The staff at Mansion House actually had the time now to sit together and enjoy a meal at the end of the day.

“Anne, I didn’t mean to--”

“You’ve done nothing untoward, Mary. I promise. I just...I have things I must attend to, and I’m sure that you do as well. We’ll talk later.”

Anne fled before Mary could try to persuade her to stay. She soothed herself by saying it wasn’t really a lie that she had told her friend--she  _ did _ have patients she needed to check on, and anyway, Mary would be leaving soon, and her husband with her. The more that Anne pushed them away now…

_ The fewer goodbyes I’ll have to endure. _

It wasn’t right, and she knew it. Mary and Jed deserved better--deserved, perhaps, what she had given Henry Hopkins when he’d left years ago. Anne was being horrid, and she knew it. She would apologize to Mary later, perhaps…

The offer had, for a moment, been tempting. But Anne recalled a few weeks ago when word of the surrender had finally reached Mansion House, how Jed Foster had forgotten himself entirely and picked Mary clean off her feet, swinging her around with joyful tears in both their eyes. Such a private moment between husband and wife, put on such public display...Anne had had to look away even as she blinked back tears of her own. It seemed that everyone had someone to embrace...everyone except her. 

Once, not long ago, Anne would have welcomed such a prospect. But now, with all her emotions bubbling to the surface with the surrender announcement, and the looming spectre of her own obsolescence staring her in the face…

No, it was a kind offer--kinder, perhaps, than Anne deserved. But she would not take advantage of the Foster’s hospitality unless she had no other choice.

“Miss Hastings?”

She looked over into the earnest eyes of one of the youngest orderlies as he approached her tentatively. “One of the men was asking for you. Wants you to write a letter to his ma, tell her he’s coming home.” He gave her a fleeting grin. “Says you’ve got the nicest writing in the place, so he asked for you specifically.”

“Of course, Jacobson. I’ll be right there.”

For the moment, it seemed, there was still at least one person who thought Anne could be useful.

\----------------------

Weeks passed. April slipped into May, and summer settled into Alexandria.

One by one, the patients left. The staff followed, some going home, others chasing opportunities elsewhere. Once, in a rare moment of weakness, Anne had started to pen a letter to Byron, wanting to know his thoughts on the war’s end, what his plans were now that the fighting was done, whether he intended to stay in California…

She had crumpled the letter, then torn it to pieces and tipped it into the fire for good measure.

Anne ended up departing Mansion House the same week as the Fosters. She’d said her goodbyes privately to Emma Green, who had hugged her fiercely and promised, through her tears, to write. Anne wasn’t sure how much she believed the girl--there were rumors swirling all throughout Mansion House and out into the streets of Alexandria, rumors of an impending courtship and perhaps even a wedding--but she appreciated the gesture. “You are a good nurse, Emma,” she had told her before departing. “Never forget that.”

Her parting with the Fosters was more emotional, and there had been tears on both sides (not from the good doctor, though, who had remained as stoic as ever, although his voice seemed thick and strained when he’d told Anne goodbye). In the shadow of Mansion House, Anne embraced the woman with whom she’d once feuded over seniority and responsibility and titles that, as it turned out, meant a great deal less than experience and common sense and compassion.

“I shall miss you,” she’d murmured in Mary’s ear, and it turned out to be true.

She had gone to New York. She had tracked her sister down and forced her to convince her landlady into allowing Anne to stay for a few weeks. In the tiny rented room of the boardinghouse, Anne and Jenny shared a bed just as they had done when they were children in the East End. “You kick and thrash just as much as ever,” Jenny complained. “However did your doctor chap stand it?”

Anne rolled over and pretended she was asleep to avoid answering.

Jenny’s hospital was not hiring, or so they claimed. Even Jenny announced that her job was precarious at best and Anne ought to try elsewhere. She wrote to two more, one in New York, one in Boston. The local one turned her down flat. The Boston hospital never responded, even when Anne wrote them again and enclosed a recommendation from one Mrs Jedediah Foster.

One day, several months into Anne’s stay, Jenny marched into the room and unceremoniously dumped a handful of newspapers into Anne’s lap. “What in heaven’s name is all this?” Anne asked.

“You and I are going to go through all of the job postings and advertisements and see if there’s something that suits. You’re driving me mad, Anne, sitting here feeling sorry for yourself. I won’t have it anymore.” Jenny flounced into the chair next to her and took her sister’s hand. “You were meant for more than this. I know it. I can’t bear to see you this way, Annie. Please, for once...just let me help you.”

Instead of answering her, Anne had silently divided the newspapers into two neat piles, one for her, one for Jenny. Their fingers became darkened with newsprint as they read, occasionally passing a page over for the other’s perusal, debating the finer points of one posting versus another. Finally, Anne stopped, circling one advertisement with one of Jenny’s drawing pencils and handing it over.

“Here’s something. What do you think?”

**_Gentleman of modest means seeks companion for invalid sister. Ladies of sound disposition and easy temperament encouraged to apply. Preference given to those with nursing experience. Please write, with letters of reference, to this address._ **

“Private nursing?” she asked. There was a bit of a scoff in her voice--she couldn’t help it. She took a swig of gin and passed the bottle to Jenny.

“Just try it. What can it hurt?”

\------------------------

“Modest means,” turned out to be an understatement.

Anne had written to the address in the advertisement two weeks after finding it, enclosing letters of reference from Doctor Jedediah Foster and Mrs. Foster, from Bridget Brannan, from Major Clayton McBurney III (the latter being forged, rather expertly, by Jenny who had a knack for copying penmanship). A response had come quickly, impressed by her credentials and inviting her to come for a formal interview at the home of one Mr. Frederick Morris, at her earliest convenience. The man in question lived in a towering mansion of red brick in Yonkers, just outside of New York City, a house that would perhaps have been intimidating had Anne not spent the last four years surrounded by the opulence of Virginia high society--or whatever had remained of it during the war. The harsh facade was surrounded by flowers that looked lovingly planted, and as she made her way up the front steps, she saw a fat gray cat sunning in the window. It felt as much of a good sign as anything else since the war had been.

She was ushered inside by a maid and was shown into the front parlor to await Mr. Morris and his sister. There, she stood in the middle of the vast room and tried not to snoop, although both the overstuffed bookshelves and the collection of framed tintypes on the fireplace mantel beckoned to her. Best avoided for now, though. She wasn’t sure whether being caught poking her nose into the Morris family’s private things would count against the portrait of a woman with  _ “sound disposition and easy temperament” _ that she had tried to paint in her application letter.

She heard them before she saw them. There was a faint creaking sound from the doorway, and she turned just as a young woman was wheeled in on a simple, but obviously well-made, wheelchair. The woman was younger than Anne by several years (although part of Anne wondered if her circumstances in any way added to her youthful appearance), her dark hair plaited in a simple braid that rested against her shoulder. She wore a dress of pleasing pink that seemed to fit oddly, hanging off her frame in a way that suggested a recent bout of illness was to blame for the poor fit. Her skin was pale, but her eyes bright, and she smiled the moment she caught sight of Anne.

“You must be Miss Hastings!” she said excitedly, and Anne couldn’t help but smile too.

“Now now, don’t go scaring her off before we’ve even begun the interview!” This voice came from the man behind the wheelchair, maneuvering it expertly into the room and beside one of the armchairs. He had hair the same shade as the woman’s, though it was graying around the temples much like Jed Foster’s had been the entire time Anne had known him. This man’s eyes were a deep green, almost emerald, and had a playful air that Anne immediately liked in spite of herself.. Most noticeable, though, was the prominent limp in his gait, though he managed to push the wheelchair without too much difficulty. Anne was immediately interested. A war injury? The same disability as his sister?

“Miss Hastings,” the man said warmly, offering her his hand. “Welcome to our home. I’m Morris--Frederick Morris, and this is my dear sister Louisa.”

“Call me Lou, please,” the woman said immediately. Anne offered her hand as well, but to her surprise, Louisa accepted it with her left hand, rather than her right. It made for an awkward handshake, but her grip was gentle, her skin cool. “You’ll have to forgive me, Miss Hastings. I’m afraid that hand is just for show, much of the time.”

Anne was immediately curious, but did not respond.

“Do sit down, Miss Hastings. I’m afraid I must, and there’s no need for you to stand on ceremony if the two of us are sitting.” Mr. Morris gestured to the chair next to Anne before slowly sinking into the red armchair beside his sister. He propped his bad leg on a nearby footstool, and tea was delivered. Anne took her cup but did not drink yet.

“Well, Miss Hastings. I must admit I was surprised by your letter, and your references.”

“How so, Mr. Morris?” Anne asked, fighting the spasm of panic she felt. She tried to keep her voice smooth and steady, her face impassive. Surely she hadn’t bungled the interview so quickly! Had he discovered the forgery? Why invite her there at all if that was the case? Had he intent to humiliate her, or worse?

But Mr. Morris only smiled. “You come to us from Alexandria! Not only that, you worked in Mansion House Hospital, that dear old place. I spent a bit of time there in ‘63.”

“Did you really?” Anne asked, unable to keep the shock from her voice. What, in God’s name, were the odds of such a thing?  _ And what kind of man calls Mansion House a ‘dear old place’? Perhaps he’s mistaken. Perhaps there were two! _

“As I live and breathe! What a small world it is!” Louisa cried, delight in her voice. This time, Anne noticed that her speech was slightly slurred. Louisa brought her teacup to her lips, her hand trembling lightly as she did so. Mr. Morris reached over and steadied her cup, putting it back on its saucer for her when she was finished without taking his eyes off of Anne. He passed her a napkin, and she wiped her mouth delicately. The motion was so practiced, so easy, that Anne knew he had done it thousands of times before.

_ He truly cares for his sister. He wants what’s best for her. _

“And imagine my shock when I opened your letter to find that one of your references was the very surgeon who saved my leg!” Mr. Morris laughed heartily, patting the appendage in question. “Not the same as it used to be, mind, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“Doctor Foster operated on your leg?”

“The very same! Good man, Foster. I’m just trying to figure out how in the world we must have missed each other, because I know I would have remembered meeting you, Miss Hastings.” There was a twinkle in Mr. Morris’ eye. Anne wasn’t sure if it was an attempt at ill-advised flirtation, or if he was just being kind.

“In ‘63, you said?” Anne asked. She thought for a few seconds before realization dawned. “It must have been when I was away from the hospital for a few weeks. I was seconded to a field hospital. We must have...just missed each other.” This was too much of a coincidence to be believed. Bridget Brannan would say it was a sign.

“Well, then I’m very glad we have not missed each other this time, Miss Hastings.” Mr. Morris smiled from ear to ear. He really was an affable, jolly sort, perhaps even charming in his own way. Anne wasn’t sure if she’d be so chipper after a devastating injury, and having to care for a lame sister, besides.

“Doctor Foster had excellent things to say about you, Miss Hastings.So did, I should mention, his dear wife! And even if they didn’t! Your credentials, your experience, studying under  _ the _ Florence Nightingale! It’s so much more than I ever hoped for when I put that inquiry in the paper, let me tell you.”

“Do tell me about her, Miss Hastings!” Miss Louisa Morris begged. She reached for her teacup again, the hand she had proclaimed “just for show” resting on her lap. “I’ve been looking forward to this ever since Freddy told me about your letter.”

Anne took a chance. Instead of letting Mr. Morris help his sister with her tea, she leaned forward instead, passing the cup over to the invalid woman with a smile. “I would be very happy to tell you about Miss Nightingale if you’d like, Miss Morris.”

“Lou,” she corrected her again. “Or if you must be formal, at least call me Louisa.”

“ _ Miss _ Louisa. As a compromise,” she said, smiling over her shoulder at Mr. Morris. “Perhaps, if I’m given the position, we can negotiate a more informal address.” Mr. Morris gave an approving nod. “And as much as I would love to regale you with tales of the Crimea, Miss Louisa, we do need to give your brother a chance to conduct the interview--”

"Oh, we can get to that later,” Mr. Morris said amiably. “She’s interviewing you as much as I am, as far as I’m concerned. We’d both love to hear the stories you have to tell, Miss Hastings.”

And so she did. She told them all of her best stories involving Florence Nightingale, and when those ran out, she told them of her days at Mansion House. Every so often one of the siblings would interrupt her with a question, which she would answer before eagerly going onto her next story. More tea was called for, and sandwiches too. About midway through their conversation, Anne realized that _ this _ was the interview--her speaking of her experiences, occasionally answering their questions with her expertise. This was how Mr. Morris would decide whether she was worthy of the task of caring for his sister.  _ That’s rather clever of him, actually. _

The sister in question listened in rapt fascination as Anne spoke, although she seemed more interested in the goings-on of Mansion House, the lives of its occupants, than the medicine practiced there. Most of her questions involved the budding romance between Doctor Foster and Nurse Mary, what happened to Samuel after he’d gone away for his medical training, what was to become of the Green sisters. They talked until both Anne and Louisa’s voices were hoarse, and Louisa’s eyes started to droop with tiredness. “I do hate to break up the conversation, but my sister needs to rest,” Mr. Morris said, his voice gentle but not to be questioned. Louisa did not even protest. “I’ll conduct the rest of the interview myself. It will be all technical details anyway, nothing to bore dear Lou with.”

“I can take her to her room, Mr. Morris, if you like?” Anne asked, already rising from her chair. “She can show me the way. It's no trouble. I’ll be right back.”

“No need.” Mr. Morris reached for a little bell on the tea tray and rang it twice. The maid appeared and Mr. Morris nodded at Louisa. “Susie, if you would bring my sister to her room, please. She’ll need a lie-down before dinner.”

“Yes, sir.” Susie turned the wheelchair, but before she could wheel Louisa away, Louisa held up a hand to stop her. She reached out for Anne and grasped her fingers gently. “It was so lovely to meet you, Miss Hastings. I can assure you we don’t need to see any more candidates. You’re perfect, and my brother knows it too, and if he doesn’t agree with me then I shall  _ make _ him hire you.”

Anne laughed, squeezing the girl’s small hand in hers. “You are very kind, Miss Louisa. I do hope I get to work with you.”

“Now, away with you, Lou. Go and sleep. You’ve worn yourself out.” Louisa was wheeled away, and Mr. Morris shifted his posture a bit, grimacing as he jostled his bad leg. 

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Morris? Can I get you anything?”  _ Again, already offering to do work when you’ve not even been given the job yet. Jenny would say you’re trying too hard. Mary would say...well, Mary would say that he’s lying, that he’s putting on a show for his sister and he’s actually in much more pain than he’s letting on. _

“Does it trouble you often?” she asked after he had shaken his head to her offer of help.

He gave a half-hearted shrug. “Comes and goes, I’m afraid. Like I said, I consider myself one of the lucky ones. But I will be the first to say that some days are better than others. Your Doctor Foster did a fine job, in any case.

_ He’s hardly my Doctor Foster, _ Anne thought, but perhaps, in a way, he was. He was her friend, after all. Surely he had to be, if he had truly written such a glowing recommendation.

“Now, I imagine you have dozens of questions about Louisa, so I’ll do my best to answer them. First and foremost, I’m sure, is what ails her, and that, I am sorry to say, I do not know. A neurological condition of some kind is all any doctor has ever been able to tell us. Her symptoms began when she was in her teens. They come and go, though--they are not constant. Sometimes she can go weeks or even months with very little bothering her. She’d want me to tell you that until a few months ago, she was even walking on her own again, without that horrid chair. Her words, not mine,” he added with a chuckle. “She hates that thing, but you must see to it that she uses it, at least until she feels stronger again.”

“I understand. What other symptoms does she experience? During her periods of relapse, I mean?”

“She calls them her spells. Let’s see. Weakness in her limbs, fatigue. Can sleep the whole day when she’s having a spell, and sometimes I let her. Sometimes her limbs don’t obey her at all, and sometimes she loses the feeling in ‘em. You saw the tremor in her hand? That’s one of the more constant symptoms. Occasionally her eyes will bother her, her vision will go blurry for days at a time, which is why one of your primary duties will be reading aloud to her. She does love a good story, as you’ve seen.” Mr. Morris sighed heavily. “It’s as much a companion position as a nursing one. She’s lonely, you see, and I ceased to be company enough for her a long time ago.”

“I see.”

“Before the war, she had our mother with her to keep her company. After she passed, I had a cousin come to stay with her, especially once I went off to fight. But no one else that we’ve hired for her has ever stayed long. Something better always comes along for them.”

_ I rather think I can understand that. _

“She’s in pain sometimes. She hates to use it, but there’s laudanum, and morphine if she needs it. You’ll have to monitor her, ask her if she wants some, because she won’t ask you on her own. We’ve noticed that fever often brings on the spells, so you’ll have to be vigilant of that. If she seems even the slightest bit off, check her temperature. Occasionally, she’ll have problems with her...bodily functions. You’ll be responsible for that as well. One of the maids can help you with her linens, but the bulk of it...will fall to you.” His face reddened somewhat, but Anne’s resolve did not waver. It was no worse than anything she’d done at Mansion House, after all. It took far more than a bit of piss to scare her away.

“Won’t be a problem. I’m hardly the squeamish type.”

“On her better days, you can follow her lead, do as she likes. We have two acres of property for you to take her for little excursions in the fresh air. The sunlight does her good. When she’s not having a spell, she enjoys lectures, concerts, anything to get her out of the house. I don’t allow these often, but when I do, we’ll both accompany her.”

“Lovely.”

“Her doctor comes out to see her often. He has suggested chronicling her symptoms in a logbook of sorts, so we may see what brings them on. You would be responsible for this as well. Are these terms agreeable to you?”

“Yes, Mr. Morris. Perfectly agreeable. You’ll find I am a meticulous record-keeper.”

“Capital. As for compensation, because I know you’ve been dying to ask--room, board, and meals provided. You’ll sleep in the guest room across from Lou’s, so you can reach her easily in the night if she has need. Every other Sunday off, unless she’s having a bad spell. If something else comes up and you need more time, I understand, but you’ll need to clear it with me first so arrangements can be made. And for salary…” from the pocket of his coat, Mr. Morris pulled out a notepad and pencil. He scribbled a number down, then passed the notepad to Anne and waited expectantly. “Paid weekly,” he added.

She gaped at the number on the page. For such a sum, she could have proper savings for the first time in her life. She could have finer dresses than she’d ever owned and even afford to get Jenny a nicer room at a more decent boardinghouse. Why, she might even be able to get her a flat!

“And Miss Hastings, spare me any fuss about it being too much. I feel as though you and I are far too pragmatic for such conversation--it would be an insult to both of us to haggle. The expense, as far as I am concerned, is worth every penny. In fact, I would be willing to offer more, if you thought it necessary.”

“No, no! It’s...it’s fine. It’s more than satisfactory.”  _ Oh, don’t be daft, Anne, he did offer...nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? _

“Or...perhaps just a little more…I have a sister as well, you see...” she began, hoping he would not call her bluff, or worse, call her a thieving, scheming harpy and demand that she leave his house. 

“Whatever you think is reasonable. I mean it, Miss Hastings. That’s the happiest I’ve seen my sister in some months. If you can bring such a smile to her face after just an hour’s acquaintance, then I cannot wait to see the good you will do her over time. When can you start?”

The gray cat had wandered in, and it wound itself around Anne’s ankles and purred as if it, too, was awaiting her response. Anne allowed herself another half-second of deliberation before she nodded. “As soon as you’d like me to, Mr. Morris.”

\-------------------

Within the week, Anne had settled into the Morris house. She used the first of her wages to find better lodgings for Jenny, and soon she was so caught up in the routine of the house that it was almost as if she’d been there for years. Louisa was intelligent, kind, easy to talk to. Anne could happily spend hours wheeling her along the rolling paths of the estate, or even walking by her side when Lousia was having one of her good episodes. Her doctor visited frequently, and Anne took to writing to Jed for advice. He told her of a doctor in France who was studying similar conditions, and Anne took his notes to heart. And so the first few years with the Morris siblings passed quickly.

A true bluestocking, Louisa had several causes she urged her brother to donate generously to. When she was allowed out to lectures and other public events, they almost always had a cause or charitable organization behind them. One memorable day, Louisa even took Anne to hear Elizabeth Cady Stanton speak.

Louisa took several bad turns. Some days she could not get out of bed, sobbing helplessly but refusing the morphine Anne offered. Often during these spells she was sullen and moody, cursing the body that would not obey her, lashing out not only at Anne but her brother too. Once, Anne awoke in the night to find Louisa crying softly into her pillow, her good arm wrapped around herself. “What will I do?” she wept. “Who will take care of him when I am not here? What will Freddy do when I am gone?”

Anne knelt by her side and took her hand. “You’re not going anywhere, Lou,” she promised. “But even if it came to that, I promise you I will look after your brother.”

She had expected Louisa to forget that conversation, but after her spell had passed and she began to feel like herself, she brought it up again. Anne also began to notice that Louisa would often watch her in her interactions with Fred (as he insisted she call him, after the first few months of her employment). Sometimes, she would look up and see Louisa staring at the two of them with a smile on her face, as if she had orchestrated all of this in the first place.

“You make a nice pair,” she told Anne on more than one occasion. Anne had rolled her eyes playfully and tried not to think about how, independently of Louisa, she had been growing closer to Fred on her own. Lou tired easily and retired early, and Anne would often sit in the parlor with Fred for an hour or so before going to bed herself. There, she would read him Shakespeare and Keats and Chaucer and Dickens; he would counter with excerpts from the many newspapers he had delivered to the house daily, with Thoreau and Emerson and even, shockingly, Whitman. Anne, who was not prone to blushing, found herself reddening every time she remembered his voice reading Whitman’s words, the way she had trembled and felt heat building up inside of her, pooling low in her belly the way she had thought she would never feel again. She cringed to remember the way she had fled from the room after.

Not again. She would not allow herself such a romance again. Not with someone she worked with--not with someone she worked  _ for. _

One night, while getting ready for a concert that Louisa had chosen for the three of them to attend, Lou had poked her head into Anne’s room (it was one of her good spells, she was using her walking stick instead of her chair) and claimed a headache, saying that they had better go without her.

“Are you sure? Don’t be silly. I’ll stay with you. Do you need the morphine?”

Louisa eyed her wryly. “No one  _ needs _ the morphine, Anne.”

“Something less strong, then. For your headache. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you.”  _ Whatever it is. _

“What I _ need _ is a glass of water and an early night and for the two of you to go and have a good time without worrying about silly old me! I promise you, I can manage for one night. Go! Have a good time! Go get an ice cream after, even! I can’t bear the thought of the two of you withering away in here on my account. Go out and enjoy the world. I’ll be here waiting.”

So they went (Fred needed a great deal more convincing than Anne had), and the concert was lovely, and they even did as Lou said and got ice cream after, even though it was late and felt wildly extravagant. They arrived home well after midnight, laughing about something Anne was unable to recall later on, and she wasn’t sure which of them had kissed whom as they stood together in the darkened kitchen. Fred tasted like chocolate and spices and it felt so good that for a moment Anne forgot nearly all of the reasons that they couldn’t be.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she pulled away.

“Whatever for?”

“Everything,” she told him, and fled.

They didn’t discuss the kiss again.

\---------

After that, Lou started to have more bad spells than good ones.

She started requiring the wheelchair more and more, until it became apparent than she would never walk unaided again. Her vision would plague her for days at a time. Her tremors became worse. Anne wrote and tore up dozens of letters to Jed Foster, wanting his aid but not knowing how to ask for it now that so much time had passed. Lou began to have seizures. She began to ask--and then beg--for the morphine.

Fred spent more and more time at home, by his sister’s side. Anne hardly left her room. The cats were brought in to her for comfort. Anne kept a telegram ready to send to Jed should the worst happen. She had a feeling he would want to know, somehow.

Lou slept, and Anne held Fred’s hand. Each time Lou’s breathing would falter, they would hold each other for dear life until her chest rose again.

Finally, one day, Fred’s eyes met her across Lou’s sleeping form.

“Oh, Anne, won’t you?”

And she didn’t even have to think about her answer.

“Yes.”

News of the engagement was enough to propel Lou back into one of her good spells. She threw herself into wedding planning, or as much as could be done from her bed. It was a small wedding--it being such a late marriage for both of them. Anne let Louisa choose the color of her dress, and they both wore flowers in their hair. Jenny stood up beside her sister, and Bridget Brannan had taken a special trip north to be in attendance. The Fosters had been invited, but Mary had recently given birth and could not travel. The letter to Emma Green had come back marked “return to sender.”

It was a beautiful April day and the daffodils were in bloom. Fred wore one in his lapel, and Anne declared he looked ridiculous, and he’d kissed her. He called her “his English rose”, and she called him  _ “love” _ and  _ “darling _ ” but never _ “dearest _ ”, for that had been Byron’s endearment for her.

There was no honeymoon, for neither of them wanted to leave Lou for that long. The reception was modest, with all of Lou’s favorite foods. She nibbled on a cake and sipped some lemonade and declared that it was the happiest day of her life, but she must go lie down, she was too tired to watch the dancing.

They lost her five weeks later.

They clung together in their grief, and the sorrow perhaps made their love sweeter, or stronger, than it would have been otherwise. Anne was never able to shake the guilt that she had taken advantage of one or both of them, that she had somehow gotten hold of something she never should have been offered. She had finer dresses than most and a fortune that the woman in Scutari never could have imagined, but they did not protect her from the whispers she heard when she crossed the street.

That Fred loved her, she had no doubt. But how much she deserved it, how much of that love she was able to return, kept Anne up at night, her head pillowed against his broad chest.

Jenny married a visiting doctor who swept her off to the wilds of Michigan. And thus, two sisters were effectively lost to her.

There was one moment, almost a year after Lou’s death, that Anne had thought she might be pregnant. Anne, who had never wished for children, didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t say anything to Fred, but she began making plans for a nursery in Lou’s old room (it had the best view of the gardens and the river) and had a new dress made that could be let out as her body grew. She imagined a little girl with jade eyes like her father’s, a little girl named Louisa Jane. Then her monthly had arrived and Anne put that dream up on the shelf forever.

His health began to fail a few years later. He’d had a bout of pneumonia after he’d moved on from Mansion House, recovering within the comfort of his home, but it had left him prone to chest infections and, without his sister, his will to get well again had left him. It was more proof to Anne that her love was not enough, that he had always given her more than she was willing to give in return. Lou’s love had brought him back when he was sick, but Anne’s wasn’t enough to save him. She wiped his brow and listened to his ragged breathing and cursed herself for every crack she’d ever made about Mary’s dear departed German Baron.

It was Anne who read to him now, as he’d read to her, as she’d read to his sister. Fred traced little patterns on the inside of her wrist as Anne read Whitman and she wished more than anything that she’d listened to Louisa several years earlier. Maybe then they would have had more time.

“I can’t leave you,” he rasped early one morning in 1873. They had been married nearly five years and Anne was instantly transported back to the night she’d found Lou crying, wondering who would watch out for Fred when she no longer could. Anne hoped she had done her proud.

“You can,” she whispered, kissing both of his hands in turn. “I’ll be just fine. You go when you’re ready, my love.”

She sent letters to Bridget when Fred passed, and, inexplicably, to Henry Hopkins. He had written his condolences and asked if there was anything he could do. She hadn’t known how to answer.

The drinking, which she had been able to walk away from altogether while Lou was alive, came back with a vengeance now that both she and Fred were gone. She made sure to never drink to excess where anyone could see, but the maids cleared away the bottles of gin and whiskey from her room and said nothing.

She dutifully donned her widow’s garb for a year. She patronized the best dressmakers, ate the finest food, donated heavily to charity. Her pet causes included veteran’s affairs, freedman’s societies, women’s suffrage, medical research, and making sure Jenny’s daft husband was taking good care of her out in the middle of nowhere. If people still gossiped about her--and she was sure that they did--it didn’t bother her. Once, a woman had mused too loudly that “widowhood suits Mrs. Morris,” and Anne couldn’t say that she disagreed with her.

They needn’t know that she cried nearly every night, longing for the feel of his arms around her. 

Her mourning period ended and color came back into Anne’s life. She told herself in no uncertain terms that the drinking was finished, and she was able to keep that promise most of the time. She boarded up the house and went to visit Jenny for an extended stay. They walked along the shores of Lake Michigan and tried to pretend that nothing had changed. Jenny said she missed New York and Anne said she was always welcome, but she did not come.

And so life went on, until one morning, the post was brought in and sitting atop a pile of letters was one addressed in a hand that Anne knew well, someone she’d never thought to hear from again. She stared at it, and when it did not disappear, carried it gingerly over to the table in the front entryway. The cat--a descendent of the one Lou had had when Anne had first met her--jumped up and rubbed her cheek along the edge of the paper.

“Fine, you take it, then,” she had told the feline, scratching her behind her ears. “I’m not opening it.”

She ignored the letter for several more days, until her curiosity finally got the better of her.

_ “What are you waiting for?” _ a voice in her head asked. Sometimes it sounded like Fred, other times it sounded like Lou, and at this moment Anne rather imagined it was both of them.

She opened the envelope.

**Author's Note:**

> WHEW. Y'ALL.
> 
> So when I was writing my contribution to the Murder Mystery fic, I realized that Anne Hastings wasn't going to give me what I wanted until I actually sat down and worked out what has happened to her in the last ten years. I didn't think it would take that long. I didn't think it would be so angsty. I didn't think it would make me love Anne so much more. I only hope you love it too.
> 
> My endless gratitude to Mercurygray for not only betaing this monster for me, but coming up with the entire idea of Fred advertising for a companion for his sister. She also wrote the advertisement, so she's basically a co-author at this point and I love her dearly.
> 
> I FINALLY got Jenny into a story and I hope to use her more. The real Anne Hastings, Anne Reading, did have a sister named Jenny who lived in New York and worked as a nurse during the war. My relocating her to Michigan was entirely my own invention--I don't know where the real Jenny ended up. Anne's crack about private nursing was more or less inspired by the Heroines of Mercy Street book by Pamela Toler. Hospitals in big cities, at the time, were filthy, crowded, horrid places where only the poor were treated. Private-hired nurses looked down upon "hospital nurses" for doing work that was considered the lowest of the low. Knowing our Anne's humble origins, I couldn't help but think that prejudice might go both ways, that Anne might consider private nursing too soft and cushy after Mansion House, or at least something that she could do, in her sleep, blindfolded. Or something like that.
> 
> Frederick and Louisa Morris are my own invention (though middlemarch provided the former's name and Merc provided the latter's circumstances). Louisa Morris suffers from multiple sclerosis, a neurological disease known for recurring relapses of a wide range of symptoms. I kind of did a bit of picking and choosing of her symptoms here, but all are known to occur with MS, and any errors are my own. MS was identified as a distinct disease in 1868 (before that, it was thought to be caused by other diseases or underlying causes, such as spinal chord lesions and atrophy) by Jean-Martin Charcot. He is the "French physician" that Anne and Jed allude to in their correspondence. Charcot also established a set of diagnostic critera called the Charcot Triad, also in 1868, for identifying and diagnosing the disease, and this was the standard until the mid-20th century. I wanted Jed to mention that somehow, but couldn't find a place to put in a letter that would make sense. In any case, as Louisa's death takes place in 1868 or possibly early 1869, the discovery comes just a little too late for her.
> 
> I realize I forgot to say Fred's occupation, but I imagine him as a titan of industry of some kind, perhaps in the railways, or in steel production a la Carnegie (only less wealthy and less of a robber baron)
> 
> The title comes from Keats.


End file.
